


The Rest of Forever

by gentleau (iwanna_seeyou_undoit)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Missing Scene, S4 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanna_seeyou_undoit/pseuds/gentleau
Summary: This is just fix-it fic for The Final Problem, pure and simple. Or, as I prefer to believe, a missing scene where 221B is a Safe Place and they love each other very, very much





	

**Author's Note:**

> Who would have thought that my first foray into writing these two would be fix-it fic? Not me, that's for sure. 
> 
> Please be gentle with me, as I have been with our boys. Because they are our boys, just say they are each other's men and always have been and always will be. For the rest of forever

“So how are we feeling about that, then?”

A soft touch at his elbow. Cup of tea placed at his wrist. He can feel the steam, the hot damp patch it makes against his wrist. Burns. Pulls his hand away.

“Fine. Good-- Yes.”

_Not an answer. Not good enough. Not enough at_ all.

“You know--” Tentative, the catch of words against John’s soft palate might as well be audible. “You did--”

“Good?” _Obvious, hateful._ “No.” He shifts again. The fleshy side of his hand rests in the middle of the steam. Hot. Grounding.

“Sherlo--” Another pause. John has never been Good At This, at talking, at emotions. Neither of them have been. It’s what got them here, facing the window, with so much left unsaid. “Sherlock.” How is it that from John’s mouth it sounds like a blessing? “I need… There’s something I have to tell you.”

His heart has completely vacated its appropriate position. It is causing a very unpleasant churning sensation in his stomach. He does not know what is wrong with him surely there is something wrong John will not _want_ him if he is defective he must _control_ this shut it dow--

“Are you-- Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

_Nod. Quickly. There, you must pretend to be normal_.

“Okay. Good. I-- What Mary… said is, that is to say I--”

The hand is back on his elbow. _When had it left? Why had he not felt the absence of John?_

“She was right.”

He feels it like a physical blow. _She was right, right, right. And Sherlock is wrong his dreadful_ traitorous _heart is_ wrong!

“She does… she does know what we’re meant to be. What we’re… what we’re meant to do.”

Sherlock thinks of Rosie downstairs with Mrs Hudson. He thinks about endless endless _endless_ cycles of nappy changes and fresh bottles of baby formula warmed _just so_ and tested on the same part of the wrist that is currently being scorched by tea steam.

He knows what John, as a father, as a widower is meant to do: stay in the upstairs bedroom until he finds a flat of his own and a girlfriend who can pass on her knowledge of _menstruation_ to his daughter and Make John Leave.

He knows he is supposed to Let John Leave and to offer to babysit every second week so John and the New Mary can have Uninterrupted Sex.

He _knows_ all of this and yet somehow he had allowed himself to _hope_.

“I know.” He hates how his voice sounds; a pitiful, tremulous thing. But he has no more walls to put up, nothing left to hide behind.

“You know?”

Sherlock _hates_ it when John parrots him. Now, it makes him want to be ill.

“Yes.” Gritted teeth is good, it can be interpreted as frustration at John not… not whatever it is that he is feeling.

“Do you-- Can you tell me… what that is?”

“Why? Oh, nevermind.” He has no wish to hear John _confirm_ that he will be leaving for good. Again. “You will to stay here. With Rosie. And I will deduce why she is crying and change her and dress her and buy her those idiotic little shirts that say _‘I heart Daddy’_ and we’ll play _happy families_ forever and ever amen.”

He is not finished, but John is beaming at him. And still holding his elbow. He shifts his arm with a little more vitriol than strictly necessary.

“I’m not finished. She will probably make a struggling attempt towards saying my name and you will cry when she manages all the way to the end of yours and then you will move out and I’ll just end up supervising whenever your pressing need for sex gets too overwhelming.”

John’s grin has gone. He knows he is right he _knows_ it, why does John look so sad? He shoulnd’t be sad that wasn’t meant to make him sad he was supposed to agree and thank Sherlock and say ‘yes that’s what the godfather does. Thank you, mate.’

_Mate_. It is _hateful_.

Instead, John says:

“Close. But you missed one important point. Quite important, I’m afraid. You’re slipping.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide closed. Yes, of course. There’s always _something_. He won’t be looking after Rosie. That privilege will go to Molly. After all, it would be neglectful to leave one's child with an addict.

John says:

“I’m not planning on moving out. In fact…” That same hand is at his elbow again. Soft. Tender. A promise of something Sherlock should never have let himself hope for. “I was rather hoping she might struggle to the end of Papa.”

He has gone stock-still. If he doesn’t move, this moment can’t end. John cannot realise who he is speaking to, who he is touching.

“O-of course, it doesn’t have to be that. It could be… actually I don’t really know any other names. She could call you Sherlock? If you-- if you’d prefer.”

He has been silent and still for too long. John’s hand drops. Of course it does. Then…

Then a hand at the nape of his neck. Fingers in his hair. The steady, calm press of an army doctor. Blood, not steam, burning a hot damp patch just behind his ear.

Then pressure along his right side. Another hand on his hip. The front of John’s denims against the back of his calf.

Then… the soft, tender press of lips. Just above the collar of his shirt. Brushing against his C1 vertebra.

“She was right… because we’re better together. If you’ll… if you’ll have me.”

A whine comes unbidden from his throat and he turns in John’s arms. Ducks his head into his neck. Inhales. _Wonderful_.

“Fine. Good-- Yes.”

“Fine?” John echoes.

Nod against soft, sweet smelling skin.

“Good?” The sensation of a warm nose pressed against an ear should not make a grown man shiver. And yet…

“Good.” Clutch the back of John’s shirt. Press closer, closer, close--

“Yes?”

And oh. That is John’s nose rubbing against his. John’s breath over his top lip. Surely there is something to expla-- Mouths. Two mouths together. Lips and stubble and a not altogether unpleasant taste of stale breath. He makes That Noise again, but finds that this time he does not mind. Not when John is taking damp, sort of sobbing breaths against his mouth and Sherlock has just discovered the wonders of the slightly uneven tooth near the back of John’s mouth against his tongue.

“Yes.”

_Yes, this. This is wonderful._ This is what they are made for, to be here in each other’s arms, with the rest of forever to get it right.


End file.
